Bird-augury is one of the oldest mantic practices found in Greek literature. In Homer it is an important means of getting and deciphering divine messages, and Hesiod regards bird-augury as the most striking form of mantic practice. [2] Birds appear as potential ‘messengers of the gods’ as they not only live among the dwellings of gods and men [3] but also move in a seemingly arbitrary and voluntary way. This behavior cannot be influenced by human beings but is regarded as a proof of their divine inspiration. [4] However, the unpredictability of flying birds and their everyday occurrence make bird-augury one of the most difficult mantic forms, and it seems that in Greek culture no overall accepted doctrine (τέχνη) had been established. [5] From this perspective the quoted verses from the Odyssey can be read as an early literary reflection upon the uncertainties of bird-augury and its mantic interpretation, even if in this case the speaker Eurymachus is proved wrong by events, which show that his opponent, the specialist [6] Halitherses, came forward with the correct interpretation of the omen.

The aim of this article is to explore the literary account of bird-augury in the recently published epigram collection transmitted on P.Mil.Vogl. VIII 309. The group of 15 epigrams (AB 21–35) entitled Oiônoskopika is of particular interest, as bird-augury was a common narratological motive in genres such as epic, historiography, tragedy and didactic poetry. Until the publication of the Milan papyrus no series of epigrams on bird-augury had come down to us, and only sporadic poems dealing with this topic are transmitted in the Greek Anthology. [7] From a literary point of view this poses questions regarding: a) the literary tradition in which these epigrams are to be placed; b) their generic models; and c) an explanation of their limited occurrence within the genre of epigram. The aspect of Sitz im Leben [8] and the relation of the epigrams with the actual mantic practice shall be addressed from the historian’s perspective. We will discuss the possibility of reading the Oiônoskopika as a poetic translation of mantic knowledge into a series of epigrams, by which the poet transmits divine messages in the form of ‘winged words’ (ἔπεα πτερόεντα). Furthermore, a possible relation between the Oiônoskopika and didactic poetry will be considered, against which we will evaluate the collection as a generic experiment in epigrammatical didactic poetry.

We will first examine the structure and sequence of the Oiônoskopika, which, regardless of whether the Milan papyrus represents the work of one author or of an anthologist, [9] not only reveal a systematic internal composition by which the reader is invited to perceive the section as an organic whole, but also fit harmoniously into the composition of the whole epigram book—an aspect which can be seen as the attempt to establish the Oiônoskopika among the more ‘traditional’ sections of epigrams like Anathematika or Epitymbia.

I. Title and Topic

Within the thematically arranged Milan papyrus the Oiônoskopika (AB 21–35) form the second section, framed by the Lithika and the Anathematika. [10] The title is taken from the fourteenth epigram (AB 34), which does not contain an omen itself but describes the praxis of augury, especially of bird-augury:

From this very hill that is seen from all sides Damon from Telmessos, good in bird-auguryfrom his forefathers proclaims; but come here and ask for Zeus’ prophetic utterance and signs. [11]

The transference of the term οἰωνοϲκοπία to the title of the whole section (οἰωνοϲκοπικά) may, however, not lead to the assumption that all epigrams of the Oiônoskopika deal with bird-augury. The predominance of bird-augury in early Greek literature has influenced the linguistic usage and from Homer onwards the words for ‘bird of prey’ or ‘bird’, οἰωνός and ὄρνις, bear the semantic meaning of ‘bird of omen’ or ‘omen’ in general. [12] Aristophanes is exploiting this metonymical transference in an ironic remark in his Birds, who take the term ὄρνις literally in order to stress man’s constant unconscious worship of the birds:

Whatever’s decisive in prophecy you deem a bird: to you, an ominous utterance is a bird, a sneeze you call a bird, a chance meeting’s a bird, a sound’s a bird, a good luck servant’s a bird, a braying donkey’s a bird. [13]

Due to the transference of the specific meaning ‘bird’ to ‘omen’ the term οἰωνοσκοπικά can also be interpreted as reference to epigrams on bird-omina as well as on other kinds of omina, so that this is an appropriate title for Posidippus’ second preserved section, in which the author plays with the double meaning of the word: of the 15 epigrams clustered together in this section, ten deal with bird-augury whereas five present different but similarly constructed signs. [14] There is, however, a close link between both groups as eight epigrams (1–5, 8, 9, 12 = AB 21–25, 28, 29, 32) belong to the common category of ἐνόδιοι σύμβουλοι, which can be expressed by birds as well as other signs. Such ‘wayfaring signs’ mostly refer to a single individual recipient and mirror the dangers and uncertainties, which were associated in antiquity especially with traveling. In connection with warfare ἐνόδιοι σύμβουλοι could also get public significance. [15] Nevertheless the quantitative dominance of bird-omina over other signs as well as the observation that all three epigrams allude to mantic practice as a τέχνη by mentioning male or female seers (6, 14, 15 = AB 26, 34, 35), while they explicitly refer to bird-omina and not to other signs, strongly argues for a narrow meaning of Oiônoskopika, which is dominated by epigrams on bird-augury. [16]

II. Internal Ergänzungsspiel

At first glance the structure of the Oiônoskopika appears to be typical of an anthology, as the epigrams thematically belong to the topic of augury, yet do not show any systematic order or interrelation among each other. [17] For a reader this could be taken as an invitation to enjoy the variety and diversity of these epigrams, to approach them individually, and to use his imagination to contextualize the single epigrams with a fictional or real object or even associate it with another literary work. Such an Ergänzungsspiel [18] is a common characteristic of Hellenistic epigram, and it becomes especially stimulating in the case of collections of loose epigrams, which do not help the reader to interpret the texts by offering a literary contextualization in the form of a dialogue between neighboring epigrams. [19] On these grounds the editors’ difficulty in detecting a clearly distinguishable structure in the Oiônoskopika [20] is no surprise, because this apparent lack of internal structure might be part of the game. However, the careful arrangement of the epigrams in sections framing the Oiônoskopika, such as the Lithika and Anathematika, [21] raises the question of whether the Oiônoskopika, too, have an inner structure on the basis of which the epigrams are deliberately arranged. This question focuses on the literary contextualization of epigrams with other poems of the same section. In this context the reader is asked to participate in an internal Ergänzungsspiel, i.e. to look specifically for links among the 15 epigrams of the Oiônoskopika. [22] As a result, the section can be approached as a Gesamtkunstwerk to which each epigram contributes. Such a focused Ergänzungsspiel, intended by the text, however, by no means limits the reader’s imagination in exploring the different and multiple contexts that can be found outside the Oiônoskopika. Quite to the contrary, it constitutes a sign of the auctorial art that preserves the individuality of the epigrams, which thus become the starting point for an open process of supplementation. On the other hand, these poems are carefully arranged as a group, so that they also participate in the specific internal Ergänzungsspiel within the Oiônoskopika. And it is this aspect that we will examine further here. For an overview of the epigrams and their topics our reader is invited to refer to the scheme at the end of this paper (section VII).

Let us begin with the question of how the epigrams are arranged and put in dialogue with each other; this will provide us with a starting point for reading the Oiônoskopika as a whole. So far, three suggestions have been made. First, the editors of the editio princeps, Bastianini and Gallazzi, propose a rather rough and unspecific three-part structure:

The first group of four epigrams (1–4 = AB 21–24) seems perfectly reasonable as all the poems deal with bird-augury; thematically they form a nice pair of two epigrams on sea-travel followed by two epigrams on fishing. However, the second group of nine epigrams (5–13 = AB 25–33), which contains “eventi di varia natura,” falls completely apart. Given that epigrams 14 and 15 (AB 34–35) form the last group, the suggested arrangement provides us with a frame of two distinguishable sets flanking an unsorted main bunch of Oiônoskopika. Such lack of order supports an anthological reading of the section, whose second and most numerous group is no more than a loose collection of various omina containing different motives and mantic qualities.

K. Gutzwiller tries to further clarify this arrangement by grouping epigrams 10–13 (AB 30–33) according to the military omina they describe. [24] Like Bastianini and Gallazzi her approach only offers a partial structure of the Oiônoskopika and confines itself to the general observation that there is a “movement … from omens for ordinary people to specific military omens, with special reference to Alexander’s conquests” [25] —an interpretation which, in our opinion, becomes problematic.

Finally D. Petrain has suggested a subdivision of the Oiônoskopika into five sections, [26] which he develops in connection with his possible but not entirely convincing interpretation of epigram 8 (AB 28). [27] Petrain tries to show that the “poems tend to fall in groups of four,” but the definition of the three groups that fulfill this criterion is not always clear, especially in the case of epigrams 9–13 (= AB 29–33) which contain “other types of omens (not birds).” [28] A further inconsistency can be found in the relation between the single groups. Whereas according to Petrain’s structure two of the groups of four epigrams are linked by a transitory epigram (5 = AB 25), there is no such bridge between the second and the third groups, which thus constitutes a “decisive break” [29] not only between the two sections but also within Petrain’s structure of the Oiônoskopika.

We would like to propose a different structure by taking into account linguistic evidence such as quotations and verbal allusions, which can be used to create links between certain epigrams, as well as by looking at four possible structural elements deriving from the content: 1) the persons by whom omina are experienced or to whom they are addressed; 2) the situations in which the omina occur; 3) the mantic significance and quality of the omina; 4) the kinds of omina involved.

II.1 Persons

Two thirds of the epigrams involve persons of different professions and backgrounds: sailors (Timon, 1 = AB 21), fishermen (Archytas, 4 = AB 24), private citizens (Hieron, 6 = AB 26; Euelthon, 9 = AB 29), soldiers (Timoleon, 8 = AB 28; Antimachos, 12 = AB 32; Aristoxenos, 13 = AB 33), seers (Asterie, 6 = AB 26; Damon, 14 = AB 34; Strymon, 15 = AB 35) as well as the Argead kings, and Alexander the Great who is mentioned twice (11, 15 = AB 31, 35). The variety of persons as well as the selective usage of names throughout the section thus makes a grouping of the epigrams according to addressee difficult and even Gutzwiller’s general observation that omina about ordinary people are followed by military omina in the second part of the Oiônoskopika cannot stand up to scrutiny. [30] Some military omina also refer to ordinary people and the sequence of explicit military omina seems to be interrupted by epigram 9 (AB 29), which is dealing with an unspecified omen for a traveling man. Furthermore, Gutzwiller does not take into account the epigrams which do not refer to specific persons but rather indicate that omina in Greek mantic are not limited to a specific group of recipients; with the exception of the Alexander-omina, all signs can principally happen to anybody in a given situation. Thus the variety of names rather seems to stress the idea that the Oiônoskopika, especially those collected in this section, could affect and refer to anybody regardless of profession or social position. The author attempts to attract the attention of a wide readership as the persons displayed in the Oiônoskopika function as a kind of ‘Platzhalter’ for the reader. [31]

At the same time, the frequent connection of names with marks of origin and short references to historical circumstances [32] might suggest that the poet also alludes to ‘historical’ persons and events that were familiar to a Hellenistic—or more specifically, an Alexandrian—audience. [33] There are, however, two objections against this assumption. On the one hand it is striking that especially the omina and oracles connected with Alexander—in epigram 11 (AB 31) the statue of Athena moves her right foot indicating his victory over the Persians and in epigram 15 (AB 35) the raven of the seer Strymon foretells Alexander three victories over the Persians—are not known from other sources. With regard to the extensive use of omina and the variety of mantic events in the historiography on Alexander, [34] we would expect to know about Posidippus’ omina from a second source, if they were indeed ‘historical’. Thus the fact that Posidippus’ examples are not transmitted elsewhere either indicates his deliberate usage of less famous omina or can be taken as part of his poetic invention and creativity in adding something new to a well-known corpus of Alexander (hi)stories. [35]

On the other hand the occurrence of ‘speaking’ names in some of the epigrams seems to be an argument against historical allusions in the Oiônoskopika as the names are used to increase the aesthetic pleasure of the single epigrams by raising (and disappointing) certain expectations of the reader. Thus for example in epigram 6 (AB 26) the ‘holy’ Hieron is rewarded for his trust in a sacrificial ritual and in epigram 8 (AB 28) Timoleon, who ‘respects the lion’, is killed, because he did not respect a bad omen on his way to war. A similar fate happens to Antimachos who is killed by the enemies he is ‘fighting’. And whereas Hieron and Antimachos confirm the mantic meaning of their names in one way or the other, in the case of Euelthon, ‘who is on a good or safe way’, the expectation raised by his name is transferred into the contrary as he will get killed by robbers on his journey to Sidene (epigram 9 = AB 29). In all cases the use of speaking names stresses the relation between person and event, as the names become omina themselves and contain a prediction of the future events. However, if the person in question ignores or misinterprets the omina, even euphemistic names do not prevent a bad outcome and in the case of Euelthon we might even take this as tragic irony. [36]

The occurrence of ‘speaking’ names as well as the difficulties in associating the persons with historical figures, [37] however, should not lead to the conclusion that all names except for Alexander’s are fictional. We are probably rather dealing with a typical Hellenistic mixture of both historical figures (Alexander) and fictional names by which the poet intends to attest and authorize the presented omina. The underlying idea seems to be the credibility of the material, which is granted by the usage of names together with marks of origin [38] and sporadic details of ‘historical’ circumstances. Thus the Oiônoskopika begin with an attested, i.e. legitimized omen by mentioning Timon in the first epigram (AB 21.6) and guide the reader through a number of unattested omina to authorized ones in the last five epigrams which all contain names (11–15 = AB 31–35). Such dynamics of legitimization allow the poet to gain authority as a credible transmitter of credible omina.

II.2 Situations

In approaching the Oiônoskopika with regard to the situations in which omina occur we find a starting point for a parallel structure: The first six epigrams (1–6 = AB 21–26) cover the private sphere with their focus on four different areas: Sea-traveling (1–2 = AB 21–22), fishing (3–4 = AB 23–24), wedding (5 = AB 25) and buying slaves (6 = AB 26). Taking these epigrams together as a group we can add the observation that there is a movement from the outside world towards the life within the οἶκος of a Greek citizen as the last line of epigram 6 (AB 26) explicitly indicates by referring to the house:

To aquire a (house-)slave the dusky heron is an excellent sign, whom Asterie the seer summons to her holy rites;heeding this omen, Hieron obtained one slave for the fields and one for the house with lucky foot. [39]

As we shall see this movement towards the οἶκος comes to an end in epigram 7, which deals with the topic of childbirth. Thus we can define the first group as a cluster of epigrams dealing the domestic affairs of private persons, and the unity of this group is further characterized by a peaceful atmosphere, common in all six epigrams.

In contrast to this first cluster, a second group of six epigrams deals with war and crime (8–13 = AB 28–33). It starts with AB 28, in which a soldier sets out for war and meets an old man crying at a crossroads, [40] and ends with the narration of Aristoxeinus’ dream and subsequent death in battle in AB 33. All epigrams in this group depict omina which bear a dangerous, mostly life-threatening prediction, and compared with the first group these epigrams move away from the oikos of the living towards the realm of the dead, or, as the last words of AB 33 make clear, εἰϲ Ἀΐδεω.

The suggested distinction of these two pairs of six epigrams is underlined in epigram 7 (AB 27) which functions as transitory epigram. It describes the importance of a special bird-omen for childbirth and explains the function of the vulture for the child’s success within society as well as in war:

For someone who is seeking the birth of children, the vulture is the best sign: it neither receives a message from god nor appears together withthe mighty eagle, but is alone meaningful—the most effective omen of all. The vulture makes a child a well-versed speaker in public and agile in war. [42]

The internal movement of the epigram from the peaceful, almost idyllic sphere of the oikos to war (ἐν πολέμωι, AB 27.6) reflects the topics and movements of the two groups mentioned above. Thus the epigram constitutes a harmonic transition between the two groups, and it is also nicely mirrored linguistically. The opening hexameter of epigram 7 (AB 27) quotes in variation the opening line of the previous epigram (6 = AB 26, as the ὄρν<ιϲ> ἄριϲτοϲ of the one is echoed by the οἰωνὸϲ ἄριϲτοϲ in the other. This allusion is further underlined by the parallel structure of the two opening verses:

The epigram perfectly integrates itself into the first group by stressing the most important aspect of an oikos: childbirth, which, as in this case, secures not only the continuity of the family but ideally also grants prosperity as well as success and glory in society.

At the same time we find a second verbal linkage as epigram 7 (AB 27) closes with the word ἐν πολέμωι (AB 27.6), which points to the following epigram (8 = AB 28), where the word is taken up twice: εἰς ἔτερον πόλεμον (AB 28.4) and ἐκ πολέμου (AB 28.6). [43] Epigram 7 (AB 27) is therefore a perfect starting point for the second group and can be regarded as a deliberately chosen transitional bridge by which the poets links the two groups, i.e. the private and the public life of a citizen. The perfect harmony of the transition creates the illusion of an ongoing story so that the reader accompanies the child (7 = AB 27) going to war (8 = AB 28) and getting killed.

Thus the following structure emerges:

First group: 1–6 (AB 21–26) domestic affairs; movement towards the οἶκος and the prospect of life (children)

Transition: 7 (AB 27) childbirth as goal of private and beginning of public life

Second group: 8–13 (AB 28–33) public sphere and military movement away from the οἶκος to war and death

However straightforward this arrangement of the first 13 epigrams of the Oiônoskopika might appear, one epigram of the second group (9 = AB 29) seems to fall out of this scheme as it deals with an unspecific omen rather than a military one:

It is a hostile sign, when a man sees larks and finches in the same spot: they are dangerous when they both appear together.This is how Euelthon saw them and evil thieves murdered him as he was walking on the road at Sidene in Aiolia. [44]

Two observations can be made: On the one hand the epigram is closely connected with the preceding one (7 = AB 27) as both deal with ‘wayfaring signs’. On the other hand, the verbal linkage between the epigrams reminds us of the internal Ergänzungsspiel within the Oiônoskopika and we could ask whether the context of epigram 9 (AB 29) provides us with a further hint that it might indeed fit into the group of military epigrams. The epigram itself does not contain any information about the identity of Euelthon or his motives for traveling, so that we can either accept the general meaning of the omen as principally referring to any traveler, or try to fill in the open space with our imagination. If we ask for instance why Euelthon was traveling, we could find a possible answer in the neighboring epigrams. As both epigrams explicitly deal with military omens and situations it is tempting to expect a military context also in epigram 9 (AB 29). Thus a possible supplementation could be that Euelthon, like Timoleon in epigram 8 (AB 28), is on his way to war, so that the overall theme of the second group would be also (indirectly) present in epigram 9 (AB 29). [45] In any case, by not providing the reader with any information whatsoever about Euelthon and by linking the epigram to the preceding one, which contains exactly such information, the poet is deliberately appealing to the readers’ desire and ability to supplement the missing information in epigram 9 (AB 29) from its context.

A further reason for the placement of epigram 9 (AB 29) in the second group can be found with regard to the quality of the omina involved.

II.3 Mantic Significance and Quality of the Omina

In all epigrams the quality of the omina is defined by authorial statements. It is clear from the beginning that we are dealing with a kind of “black and white” scheme as the described constellations of signs and situations indicate either a good or a bad outcome. Epigrams which give examples of both, like the first one (AB 21), where we learn that a falcon is a good omen for shipping in contrast to a shearwater, [46] clearly focus on one of the possibilities, which is then further illustrated by a concrete example. As a result, every epigram stresses one specific quality of an omen.

The category of mantic quality provides us with further evidence for the suggested arrangement: Whereas the first group consists of six epigrams (AB 21–26) with positive omina, the epigrams of the second group mostly depict negative ones. [47] Looking at the position of AB 29 from this point of view, its placement amongst the military omina is justified by the negative omen, which leads to the same outcome as the purely military omina. Thus our suggested structure of the Oiônoskopika is can be further established:

First group: 1–6 (AB 21–26) positive omina and peaceful atmosphere

Second group: 8–13 (AB 28–33) negative omina in connection with war and crime

II.4 Kinds of Omina

As a final criterion for structuring the Oiônoskopika we will look at the kinds of omina. Although the diversity of omina (ten epigrams present bird-omina whereas five deal with human beings, statues, or dreams) does not seem to be very helpful in arranging the epigrams at first glance, an interesting constellation can be detected. Whereas in the first group (1–6 = AB 21–26) all epigrams except the fifth (AB 25) deal with bird-omina, birds in the second group (8–13 = AB 28–33) either play no role at all [48] or are subordinate to a different, more decisive sign, [49] but again with one exception: epigram 9 (AB 29) is a pure bird-omen. We thus find a parallelism in regard to the absolute number of omina, six of which are bird-omina and six depict omina of a different kind.

However, in composing the two groups according to the depicted situations and the quality of the omina, [50] the poet has avoided the creation of a strict symmetry in the kinds of omina involved. Instead he has integrated a bird-omen in the otherwise bird-free second group and the omen of an encounter with certain human beings (5 = AB 25) with the five bird-omina depicted in the first group. This surprising inconsistency [51] in the otherwise strictly parallel arrangement, however, is not only subordinated to the two structuring criteria of situations and quality— which both epigram 5 (AB 25) and epigram 9 (AB 29) share with the other epigrams of their groups [52] —but also serves an important function with regard to the overall topic of the Oiônoskopika. The unpredictable surprise in the otherwise parallel arrangement of the epigrams is a symbolic reminder by which the poet shows his audience that the material he is dealing with, i.e. omina, is itself unpredictable, even if a well-ordered and ‘secure’ way of interpretation seems to have been established. Form and content thus comment on each other and the τέχνη of arranging the Oiônoskopika mirrors the search for, as well as the difficulty in, finding a reliable τέχνη in dealing with mantic omina.

It is exactly this search that leads the reader to the seers in the last two epigrams of the Oiônoskopika, which form a third and final group (14–15 = AB 34–35). Having read thirteen examples of different omina, the reader is not only reminded of the importance of consulting a seer. To a certain degree the reader has now been elevated to the position of a seer himself, insofar as he has read and learned about certain omina, of which some are important for everyday-life occurences, and for the ways of approaching them. The structure of the Oiônoskopika can therefore be considered as didactic, as the reader is led from simple omina in the first couple of epigrams, i.e. omina which can be easily interpreted and are partly expressed in the form of country sayings, [53] to more complicated and rare ones, which make it necessary to consult a seer. This didactic structure of the Oiônoskopika (compare texts on cultural development or aitiological texts) reveals itself by way of the internal Ergänzungsspiel. It could also lead the way to finding the generic models of the Oiônoskopika, which might be regarded as the transformation of a technical prose text on mantic art into the poetry of epigrams. [54] The question of intertextuality also opens a path towards reading the Oiônoskopika as a kind of didactic poetry. However, as such a transformation cannot be achieved by a single epigram, our reading of the Oiônoskopika as a collection of epigrams that are closely connected with each other becomes the conditio sine qua non for such an assumption. On grounds of the Hellenistic play of genres [55] it seems however possible that the Oiônoskopika as a collection translated the characteristics of other literary forms into epigram. To take this idea a little further, we have to ask how far the Oiônoskopika reflect the actual mantic practice, and how it can be placed in the literary tradition of transporting mantic knowledge, be it technical literature or didactic poetry.

It is, in fact, no small or ignoble division of divination, but a great and very ancient one, which takes its name from birds; for their quickness of apprehension and their habit of responding to any manifestation, so easily are they diverted, serves as an instrument for the god, who directs their movements, their calls or cries, and their formations which are sometimes contrary, sometimes favouring, as winds are; so that he uses some birds to cut short, others to speed enterprises and inceptions to the destined end. It is for that reason that Euripides calls birds in general “heralds of the gods”. [56]

Plutarch’s criteria of movements, utterances and constellations, in which different birds collaborate, are particularly prominent for an interpretation of bird-omina in Greek culture. However, his text does not provide an answer to the question whether these criteria have ever been integrated into a semantic system of bird-augury and considering our poor sources this will probably remain uncertain. Nevertheless, there is some literary evidence that contains certain patterns of (bird-)augury, which provide quite a detailed picture of the nature of Greek mantic. First of all, there is the coincidence of an extraordinary incident and a significant moment, which creates the symbolic value. On this occasion, against a backdrop of its habits, the behavior of a bird (or a number of birds) is understood as a symbolic code, which can be deciphered in regard to the situation in which it occurred. Beyond this basic assumption, however, material concurrences within Greek mantic are by no means guaranteed. The code is not fixed but flexible, and elements of arbitrariness not only arise from the situation in which a sign occurs but also from eclectic observation. Thus in bird-augury the following ways of behavior must be especially considered: the manner of flying, the direction of flight, the place of a possible landing, the food intake, and the interaction with other birds or animals in general. [57]

Furthermore, a bird can get into contact with a human being on its own account and thus present itself as a messenger from the gods. Although specific birds are associated with specific deities (for instance the eagle with Zeus or the falcon with Apollo), the connection between the species and other factors remains significant particularly since Greek mantic does not seem to know any explicitly ‘lucky’ or ‘fateful’ birds/birds of good or bad tidings. If we take a look at the Alexander literature for instance, we find examples of both a positive and a negative interpretation of the raven [58] and a similar ambivalence can be observed in the case of owls. [59]

When applied, even the differentiation which had remained the only distinction in Greek mantic of signs that was generally acknowledged and being used since Homer, namely the ‘technical’ classification into right-promising and left-unfortunate, seems to be governed by a certain randomness. Either it might simply become redundant due to the symbolic property of the sign (for instance through the metaphoric implication of the ‘flying ahead’ or ‘flying over’) or it could be taken as an accidental statement merely confirming an assessment of a sign, which had already been established by means of symbolic configuration as favorable or unfortunate. The fact that there are only a few post-Homeric and pre-Hellenistic records of bird-omina, in which the indication of direction becomes markedly significant for the interpretation, [60] undoubtedly links with the trends of literary representation of such signs. In a reality in which symbolic explanations were not always at hand, the simple distinction between ‘right’ and ‘left’ presumably played a more important role. An ἀετὸς αἴσιος spotted by a seer during a sacrifice would simply have been seen as an eagle flying to the right. [61] Yet there is no doubting that symbolic and metaphoric interpretations had a greater persuasiveness in Greek mantic.

Since in most cases bird-omina were not especially sought for but occurred spontaneously, the simple classification of ‘right’ and ‘left’ cannot be taken as objective data but depends on the accidental standpoint of the spectator at the very moment he sees the unexpected bird. It would of course be possible to establish such an objective orientation in which ‘right’ and ‘left’ became connected to specific cardinal points, if we assume that the sky would be observed with the intention of gaining bird-omina. However, concrete examples of such a particular method are not recorded in Greek literature, at least not in pre-Hellenistic times. Nonetheless, there is some evidence showing that also the Greeks enacted bird-augury as provoked mantic: in replying to the interpretation of a bird-omen by Polydamas, the Homeric Hector identifies ‘right’ with East and ‘left’ with West:

But thou biddest us be obedient to birds long of wing, that I regarded not, nor take thought thereof, whether they fare to the right, towards the dawn and the sun, or to the left towards the murky darkness. [62]

However, this identification is not universally applicable and it is valid for neither the concrete sign, which Hector reacts to, nor other bird-omina in the epos, which always occur spontaneously or are semi-provoked but at any rate appear uncalled-for. [63] Furthermore the reference to one side strongly depends on the present location of the receiver. To give an example, when Odysseus and Diomedes are prowling through the darkness of the night to the camp of the Trojans as spies, the following omen occurs:

And for them Pallas Athene sent forth on their right a heron, hard by the way and though they saw it not through the darkness of night, yet they heard its cry. [64]

It seems very unlikely that the two heroes would determine a cardinal point for bird-watching in the darkness. Furthermore, since they were on their way from the Greek to the Trojan camp they were moving south and thus they must have heard the heron coming from the west. But how is Hector’s remark to be taken? He probably hints at a mantic habit, in which the observer of birds faces north and gathers bird-signs by observing and interpreting the movements of the heavenly messenger. [65]

The literary texts do not provide any further first-hand reports of such a ‘technical’ mantic; at best speculations can be made. The warning transmitted by the only bird-sign in Hesiod’s Works and Days, which cautions to beware of the cawing crow on the roof, does not exclude technical means. Furthermore, Hesiod’s lost Ornithomanteia might have contained some rules for a stationary observation of birds. [66] In tragedy, traces of mantic technique can be found in Aeschylus’ Seven Against Thebes when Eteocles, on ordering the Thebans to occupy and watchfully guard the walls, towers, and gates of the city, refers to the prophecy of a seer in order to justify his command:

But now, as the seer, the shepherd of birds, informs us, pondering in ears and mind, with no help from fire, the omens of prophecy with unerring skill—he, master that he is of such means of divination, declares that the fiercest assault of the Achaeans is proclaimed in nightly council, and that they will devise plans for the capture of our city. [67]

The seer, who enjoys Eteocles’ trust, infers precise information from the bird-flight, which can hardly be gained from symbolic interpretation alone. Likewise characterizations such as ‘master of prophecies’ (δεσπότης μαντευμάτων) and ‘shepherd of birds’ (οἰωνῶν βοτήρ) imply an active part of the seer without however learning more about his ‘unerring art’ than the mere fact. The question remains whether Aeschylus and his contemporaries actually still knew anything at all about the methods and contents of such a mantic art (τέχνη). [68]

Concerning the possible location of mantic art, the outcome is comparably meager. One of the few hints can be found in Sophocles’ Antigone, when Teiresias talks to Creon:

You shall learn, when you hear the indications of my art! As I took my place on my ancient seat for observing birds, where I can mark every bird of omen, I heard a strange sound among them, since they were screeching with dire, incoherent frenzy; and I knew that they were tearing each other with bloody claws, for there was a whirring of wings that made it clear. [69]

In the Bacchae of Euripides the seat of the old bird-watcher is also referred to. [70] In view of such patterns it is not surprising that in the second century CE the Thebans wanted to show their tourists this legendary place, which Pausanias mentions as the οἰωνοσκοπεῖον of Teiresias and locates between the sanctuaries of Ammon and Tyche. [71]

Considering this exceedingly poor evidence one might indeed wonder whether the mantic ‘science’ in Greece is not just a fiction proposed by the literary sources, which has been re-projected into an idealized past. There is, however, one fragment of an inscription found in Ephesos and dated to the second half of the sixth or the beginning fifth century BCE, that strongly confirms the hypothesis of an elaborated mantic τέχνη in Greece. The inscription pins down in detail the significance of bird movement:

If [a bird] which is flying from right to left disappears [from sight], [the sign] is good; if it lifts his left wing, flies up and disappears, [the sign] is bad; if it disappears flying from left to right however, [the sign] is bad. But if it disappears after lifting the right wing, [the sign] is good.

In manner and content, the inscription is unique since here the criteria, which serve to analyze and evaluate bird-flight, are indeed technical and not symbolic. The common distinction of ‘right’ and ‘left’ exists and is connoted in the common manner, but it only becomes the crucial factor if the bird does not settle within the viewer’s field of vision. If it does, the movement of its wings becomes decisive. This relevance of wing movements lacks any parallel in the Greek mantic of birds, at least as far as we know from the descriptions in literary texts. In view of the fragmentary character of the inscription it remains uncertain whether the Ephesian rules also take into account the species of birds or might even refer to a very specific type. In any case, the regulations presuppose that the movements of birds were observed from a very particular viewpoint with a specific direction (probably northwards). [73] Thus the inscription seems to confirm the poor literary evidence suggesting a tradition of active bird-augury in Greece.

The uniqueness of the inscription has raised doubts about its origin, and Wilamowitz for example regarded the rules of the inscription as hardly being Greek. [74] For all we know, bird-augury indeed had so great a tradition in Old-Anatolia [75] that the present regulations might have been transmitted from there to Ephesos. But this, of course, remains speculation and even if this was the case, the question remains whether and how such influences had any effect within a Greek context. A partial answer to this question might be given by the epigraphic context. The block of marble, which carries the inscription, probably belongs to an extensive collection of texts, which were apparently fastened to a wall in the Artemision. Of these texts a second block has been preserved showing a different inscription. It records an oath-offering, which a witness had to accomplish before the judges in a trial. [76] This connection suggests that it is unlikely that the augury inscription can be taken as a consecration of an οἰωνοσκόπος as proposed by Jacoby. [77] One could rather say that the Ephesian people apparently used to publish binding rules of sacral character at a wall of their main sanctuaries. Pritchett thus deduced a connection between the two preserved matters of law:

The auspices were taken for some official purpose. Since one fragment has to do with the taking of an oath before dikastai by the use of a boar (οἰμύντα κάπρωι τὸν Ζῆνα ἐγμαρτυρεῖν), the augury text must presumably relate to the ritual of taking omens for some official body. [78]

Such a connection is conceivable but by no means definite for numerous examples show that the spatial proximity of archaic inscriptions on a wall does not yet indicate a textual relation. [79] Furthermore, following Pritchett’s hypothesis one might conclude that in Ephesus there existed an augury-tradition, which corresponded to the Roman pattern at least from a formal point of view. But as far as we know the Greek community did not know of any of this. The same, of course, applies to the more far-reaching finesse of Roman augury-tradition such as the differentiation of celestial areas or the fixation of a templum. [80] Hence, a standardized connection between the rules of assessing the bird-flight and political executions and institutions seems rather doubtful. But what does it mean if the rules, which apply to the gathering of bird-omina, are displayed in public? On the one hand this guarantees that at least theoretically every Ephesian can learn and practice the art of augury if only in its outline. However, since possibly not all Ephesians had a cause, the time, or the desire for this, at least the inscription enabled them to control the specialists, whom they could consult in private or public matters equally, and check their interpretations. On the other hand, due to the fixation on the rules of interpretation contradictory explanations, at least if founded on the same observation, were ruled out. As a consequence we can say that the Ephesian inscription complies with the Greek trend to prevent exclusive specialization and secret knowledge in religious issues. Despite the existence of specialists in augury, in principle everyone can interpret bird-omina provided he has the social status that allows him to take part in public discourse.

The setting up and publication of the inscription is a concomitant of the contemporary trend of depersonalizing and objectivizing norms that is clearly evident in archaic legislation. Although Greek signs owe their persuasiveness rather to situative and metaphorical interpretation than to abstract rules, the trace of an actually existent techne of bird augury within Greek civilization has thus been stabilized and solidified. Against this backdrop it seems perfectly justified to render Posidippus’ Oiônoskopika not only in the context of the literary tradition of augury but to look for traces of potential scholarly and technical references, which in the manner of the inscription mentioned above reflect poetically on the “technical” or rather the regulated dealing with mantic.

IV. Posidippus’ Oiônoskopika and Mantic Practice

Although bird-augury seems to have played only a minor role as a public mantic practice in the fifth and fourth centuries BCE, it remained—and not only in poetic texts—the most respected and heroic branch of Greek mantic. Especially the ‘historical’ signs (i.e. signs that are embedded in a historical context) reveal the enormously striking continuity of the Homeric patterns. Thus it is no wonder that so vast an amount of bird-omina transmitted in connection with Alexander’s warfare fit in perfectly with the Homeric self-image of the Macedonian king and the heroic stylization of his deeds by the historians, especially Callisthenes. [81] By mentioning Alexander twice and presenting a collection of bird-omina, Posidippus’ Oiônoskopika probably reflect this historical restoration of bird-augury in particular and augury in general.

Reading the Oiônoskopika in the light of the literary and technical sources on (bird-)augury, we see a basic characteristic of Greek mantic, namely the predominance of symbolic interpretation. The following pattern emerges. The first three epigrams contain analogies, as can be seen for example in the first epigram (AB 21). If a ship is pulled into the sea and a falcon shows up flying high above, the ship will sail safely. If, on the other hand, a shearwater appears (a bird which being incapable of flying high dives into the sea), a shipwreck could be expected. Thus the fate of a ship is determined by the flight patterns of birds appearing at the moment of its departure. Similarly, in the second epigram (AB 22) a flying bird, a crane, stands for a successful sea voyage, whereas in the third epigram (AB 23) the diving shearwater augurs successful fishing. [82] In the last two instances the signs (which are reminiscent of country sayings) also have an empiric dimension. The contradictory outcome that the shearwater portends in epigrams 1 and 3 (AB 21, 23) clearly indicates that the interpretation of a sign depends more on the situation in which it occurs than on the type of bird involved.

This “situative” character of omina is further developed in epigrams 4 to 7 (AB 24–27) which display different coincidences that lead to the mantic significance of signs. Although the exact semantics of the omina in epigrams 4 and 5 (AB 24, 25) remain dubious owing to the lack of parallels, [83] in epigram 6 (AB 26) a bird appears at a sacrifice—a traditional constellation well exemplified in Greek literature. [84] However, it is atypical that the seer Asterie demonstrates magical powers by calling a bird for help. We should take this unusual act as the poet’s attempt to underscore an exceptional event—the judgment of the seer who prays and sacrifices in order to achieve a client’s goal of buying a good slave is confirmed by a bird. However, it remains unclear what the link is between the πελλὸς ὄρνις and the buying of slaves. That the vulture is helpful with regard to offspring, as stated in epigram 7 (AB 27) can be concluded from his εὐτεκνία, as the editors have shown. [85] With the notion that a vulture enables a child to become a good speaker and an agile soldier we find the variation of a Homeric and Hesiodic topos. [86]

Epigrams 8 and 9 (AB 28, 29) contain typical ἐνόδιοι σύμβουλοι which are constructed as analogies. In epigram 8 (AB 28) a soldier who sets out to war sees an old man crying at a crossroads. [87] This omen reflects the death of the soldier symbolically as the old man resembles the father of the soldier who laments his dead son. The crossroads can also be interpreted symbolically because it offers a soldier the alternative of dying at war or cowardly retreating from it. Epigram 9 (AB 29) is subtle as the interpretation of the behavior of the birds is based on the knowledge and observation of their ways of life. Larks and goldfinches normally do not gather at the same place. However, if they do so, they warn the spectator that something terrible will happen. As a matter of fact, in Greek mantic irregular natural phenomena inherently have negative connotations: the addressee, whose identification may be disputed, has to face disaster. [88]

Epigrams 10 and 11 (AB 30, 31) contain signs associated with the religious sphere, which is also a familiar motif in Greek literature, as the gods often deliver their messages in form of omina at the place of religious communication, i.e. the sanctuaries. [89] In this regard sweating statues were especially prominent and it is not astonishing that we find such an omen in Posidippus (10 = AB 30), although he presents the omen in an unusual way:

If a xoanon sweats what great trouble it spells for a citizen and what a blizzard of spears it signifies!But he who invokes a perspiring god, he will deflect fire to the folds and crops of his unfortunate enemies. [90]

The sweating of the cult statue is a conventional sign that always indicates destruction or devastation in war. [91] In Greek (and Roman) literature such an omen is symptomatic: it happens before the actual catastrophe and is verified ex eventu. The frequent use of this omen in literature can be explained by the narratological effect of symptomatic omina in guiding the expectations of a reader and explaining the causality of an event. Coming back to Posidippus, however, it seems odd that he does not present the omen retrospectively (as he does in most of the other epigrams) but takes the view of the addressee whom he gives surprising advice on how to avert the predicted devastation. If we compare this treatment of the omen with an episode taken from the Alexander literature, an interesting observation can be made. The Alexander episode runs as follows. Before Alexander’s march against the Persians, a statue of Orpheus in a Prierian sanctuary was seen sweating. Whereas the other seers who were consulted gave the expected negative prediction, the Telmessian Aristandros gave a different answer. He not only took into account the sweating of a statue but related it to the person depicted in the statue (i.e. Orpheus). Aristandros, transferring the metaphorical meaning of Orpheus as a poet to the actual situation, explained the sweating by saying that the poets of his time would have a lot to do (i.e. to sweat) in order to praise Alexander and his future deeds. [92]

The pattern of this story is a typical one in Greek mantic. In dealing with negative omina the seers often tried to avert the most obvious reference of the divine message by way of creative reinterpretation. [93] If we compare this pattern with Posidippus, we find that he achieves this, not by reinterpretation, but by ritual. The transference of the negative semantics to the enemy is achieved by the evocation of the sweating god. Such ritual methods in reaction to negative omina, however, are found only sporadically in Greek literature and mantic. Posidippus’ epigram probably reflects an actual practice and we can assume that also in Greece people ‘answered’ to such negative omina with prayers and sacrifices. The reliability of such averting means, however, was not valued as highly as it was, for example, in Rome. [94] Whereas Posidippus in the other epigrams reflects the fixation of Greek mantic on questions of interpretation, epigram 10 (AB 30) introduced into literature a mantic practice which, hitherto, had been mostly sub-literary.

In epigram 11 (AB 31) we find a statue of Athena in front of her temple (which is unfortunately not further located by the poet) that moves her right foot, which is made of lead. [95] This sign proves to be an auspicious τέρας for Alexander who is planning his war against the Persians. Compared with the conventional signs the previous Macedonian kings received, Alexander’s τέρας is superior and more specific. The movement of the right foot of the Athena-statue is a positive sign which becomes clear for three reasons: a) because it is the right, i.e. the better foot. b) The incident occurs while Alexander is planning his war. We thus have a clear situation to which the sign must refer. In this specific context the movement of the foot can only mean that Athena indicates she will march alongside Alexander against the Persians. c) The heaviness of the foot symbolizes that the undertaking will be difficult but nonetheless possible.

Epigrams 12 and 13 (AB 32, 33) concentrate on the reactions of the figures involved. In epigram 12 (AB 32), a servant, who is carrying the weapons of his master Antimachos, falls down. The incident anticipates Antimachos’ fate—that his weapons will be of no avail. Although Antimachos reacts to the sign with dismay and is puzzled, he takes part in the war and returns reduced to ashes. The protagonist of epigram 13 (AB 33), by point of contrast, reacts in exactly the opposite way. Aristoxeinos misinterprets his symbolic dream as being auspicious for his participation in the battle. But he ends up being killed. In both cases the result is the same but the cause of events is different. Antimachos interprets the sign correctly but does not draw the necessary consequences while Aristoxeinos, led by hubris or stupidity, interprets the sign wrongly but reacts consistently. In the two epigrams the poet suggests that the gods, whose will is indicated in omens and dreams, are always right and always achieve their goals.

The concluding epigrams 14 and 15 (AB 34, 35) celebrate the competence of two seers in interpretating the birds’ flight (14 = AB 34) as well as in understanding the birds’ language (15 = AB 35). [96] Thus these epigrams ‘correct’ the wrong interpretation of the preceding one and pave the way for the overall and final success of bird-augury in the collection. In the latter epigram the raven functions as a carrier of divine messages which are associated with Alexander (apparently early in his war against the Persians) and which hint at the three battles of Granikos, Issos and Gaugamela. The seer who is able to translate the language of the raven [97] is characterized as a hero: ἥρωϲ Θρηίξ ὀρνίθων ἀκρότατοϲ ταμίηϲ (AB 35.2). His competence is based on a τέχνη, which has been described as a family tradition in epigram 14 (AB 34.2): Δάμων Τελμηϲϲεὺϲ ἐκ πατέρων ἀγαθὸϲ οἰωνοϲκοπίαϲ. The Carian Telmessos is already praised by Herodotus for its mantic specialists [98] and Alexander’s most important seer was born in Telmessos. [99] Although the Telmessians are represented in Greek sources mostly through symbolic interpretation, they seem to have regularly practiced certain mantic techniques, such as extispicy, dream divination, and bird augury. [100] In this regard epigram 14 (AB 34) confirms the use of a specific technique in Greek mantic as the seer operates from a specific location, a hill, where he meets his clients. [101]

Summarizing these observations on mantic in the Oiônoskopika we get a two-fold picture. On the one hand, most epigrams display the patterns familiar from the literary sources (which we can describe as situative or figurative mantic). On the other hand, the epigrams contain traces of a technical mantic known to us especially from the Ephesian inscription mentioned above. Thus the Oiônoskopika seem to reflect both literary and technical approaches towards Greek mantic. This observation recommends that we should not search for one generic model alone.

V. Poetry and Didactics in the Oiônoskopika—the Literary Tradition

As stated in the beginning, bird-augury is an integral facet of epic poetry in which it often serves as a narratological device to motivate action, to connect episodes, and as a justification of specific events. Whereas bird-augury in epic as well as in other literary genres (such as historiography or tragedy) remains an isolated, episodic phenomenon, it is also—if only very schematically—a topic of whole works, a fact which reflects the profound interest in augury and its great significance in Greek civilization. First to be mentioned is the lost ὀρνιθομαντεία ascribed to Hesiod. This work, which was athetized by Apollonius Rhodius, [102] might indeed have contained a complete bird-mantic. It probably followed the Works and Days as the following lines suggest (826–828):

That man is happy and lucky in them who knows all these things and does his work without offending the deathless gods, who discerns the omens of birds and avoids transgressions. [103]

One can only speculate on the structure and the mantic implication of this ὀρνιθομαντεία. Above all it seems possible that it might have been a kind of didactic poetry composed in the manner of the daily calendar of the Works and Days (which also alludes to bird-signs) [104] and could have included an anthology of the most important or the most frequent signs and their significance. At the same time one cannot rule out a treatment limited to the function of bird-omina as—for example—weather indicators. In such a way bird-omina are presented in the Phaenomena of Aratus, who has imitated Hesiod’s didactic poetry [105] and who has incorporated or transferred a prose text ‘On Signs’—be it Theophrastus’ De Signis or a more extended one [106] —into his own didactic poem. Similarly Posidippus could have “translated” a (lost) technical prose text on (bird-)augury or a didactic poem—be it Hesiod’s ὀρνιθομαντεία, a lost poem or parts of Aratus’ Phaenomena—into his epigrammatic poetry. In any case, the example of Hesiod and Aratus show that bird-augury appears to have had its place also in didactic poetry as a potential topic of an individual work, which could have functioned as a model for the Oiônoskopika.

Our assumption seems further justified in view of the Hellenistic renaissance, not only of didactic poetry in general, but also, as the example of Aratus indicates, of the poetical reception of bird-augury as a special topic of this genre. Even without being able to illustrate a direct reception of Aratus (let alone Hesiod) by Posidippus, comparison clarifies the following. Unlike Aratus, Posidippus tries to present the whole range of mantic augury in an exemplary study. In his epigrams we find both weather indicators and signs referring to everyday-life as well as political and ‘historical’ omina. This reflects the poet’s claim to present (with the brevity of the epigrammatic form) as complete a picture of (bird-)augury as possible. From this point of view we might say that Posidippus’ epigrams outgrow the limits of a didactic poem that is restricted in theme such as Aratus’s Phaenomena. Thus a potential double intention of the Oiônoskopika emerges, namely to integrate a new topic into the genre of the epigram and at the same time to establish and introduce the new epigrams as a rival to other genres that had previously dealt with this topic.

Such a breaking of genre-boundaries is particularly characteristic of the Hellenistic epigram, [107] and in the case of the Oiônoskopika a dialogue with at least four different genres takes place. Whereas the inner Ergänzungsspiel of the Oiônoskopika reveals the didactic structure of the section, single epigrams of the collection allude to and play with themes and motifs taken from didactic poetry, epic, historiography, and technical writings on augury. Thus we are familiar with the type of weather-indicator and country-saying (2–3 = AB 22–23) from didactic poetry (Hesiod, Aratus) and from the Homeric Epos; political and military omina have their traditional place in historiography and epic; and the technical details concerning seers and their art which are presented in epigrams 14 and 15 (AB 34, 35) mirror the presentation of bird-augury in technical writings. With his Oiônoskopika, Posidippus thus combines a scientific approach of (bird-)augury with a poetical combat of genre.

The intended appeal to different genres can be supported by three further observations. At the beginning of the Oiônoskopika a striking allusion to Homer suggests itself in the language of epigram 1 (AB 21):

In AB 21.3 and especially 21.5, Posidippus, at a prominent spot of his introductory epigram, quotes a Homeric description of a hawk or falcon, [109] which appears, after Poseidon had transformed into the bird-interpreter Calchas (Iliad XIII 45) and delivered his warnings to the two Aias (Iliad XIII 62–70):

And he himself, just like a hawk, swift of flight, rises to fly, and posing himself aloft above a high sheer rock, darts over the plain to chase some other bird; so from them sped Poseidon, the shaker of earth. And of the two swift Aias, son of Oïleus, was first to recognize the god, and immediately spoke to Aias, son of Telemon: “Aias, since it is one of the gods who hold Olympus who in the likeness of the seer tells the two of us to flight beside the ships—he is not Calchas, the prophet and reader of omens.” [110]

The following aspects can be observed. Posidippus not only alludes to the Homeric passage by language, quoting from him almost word for word in line 62, but also establishes a connection to the context of the cited passage, thus inaugurating a dialogue between the two texts on different levels. First of all, as in Posidippus, the Homeric sign appears in connection with the topic ‘ship’. In contrast to Homer, where Poseidon joins the Greeks in order to prevent the impending destruction of their fleet, Posidippus refers to the far more general and peaceful situation of launching a ship. [111] But in both cases it is nonetheless the falcon/hawk that is associated with the ship. Posidippus thus uses his quotation of a Homeric verse to transfer the Homeric context, i.e. the link of the falcon/hawk with Poseidon into his epigram, and thus lays the foundation of the mantic significance of this particular bird for navigation. Furthermore, from the viewpoint of the observer, the god and falcon/hawk become so closely bound up to each other in the Homeric omen that one could almost think of metamorphosis. [112] This image impressively evokes the fundamental mantic theme of the Oiônoskopika, which claims that in every observed (bird-)omen there is a divine message to be discovered.

A further important link between Posidippus’ epigram and the Homeric passage is that in Homer the previous appearance of Poseidon in the shape of the seer Calchas is closely connected to the topic of bird-augury since Calchas is characterised by Aias explicitly as θεοπρόπος οἰωνιστής, as an ‘interpreter of bird-flight’ (verse 70). In evoking this context Posidippus not only legitimizes his topic as Homeric but also raises the reader’s expectation that in the course of the epigrams an expert on bird augury such as Calchas will show up. This is indeed the case in the last two epigrams which thus end the dialogue with Homer. As a result Posidippus deliberately links his Oiônoskopika via the linguistic bonds (verse 62 of Iliad XIII is cited in AB 21.5), the resemblance of motives (ship, hawk/falcon), and thematic allusions (bird-augury) to the Iliad XIII 167–177, which thus can be seen as a classical, textual model for the οἰωνοσκοπικά (col. IV 7). This supplementary game with epic poetry is an important key for reading the Oiônoskopika and the discussion of its generic models.

A second intertextual dialogue can be found in epigram 7 (AB 27), where the topos of inspiration, which a muse or a god bestows on poets and singers as well as their gift of eloquence, [113] is taken up from the tradition of Homer and Hesiod (AB 27.5–6):

The vulture makes a child a well-versed speaker in public and agile in war. [114]

One could say that Posidippus’ intention in evoking this topos in such an untraditional way was simply to show his poetic creativity by way of variation. However, a metapoetical aspect cannot be ruled out. With the topos of granting eloquence Posidippus is deliberately evoking the two loci classici in Homer and Hesiod, but only in order to distance himself from both texts. By replacing the Homeric god and the Hesiodic muses with the vulture as the bestower of eloquence, Posidippus not only gives the topos a new shape and a different context but also establishes his epigram(s) in an ironic way as a new and more appropriate medium than Homeric or Hesiodic epic. We might even say that Posidippus is correcting his predecessors by naming the real (i.e. mantically approved) bestower of eloquence, a bird, in the appropriate form, an epigram on bird-augury. And as the vulture needs no other bird or even god to express his message and to become a proper omen, Posidippus and his readers need no other text to understand the gift of eloquence correctly. As the Posidippan vulture competes with the Homeric god and the Hesiodic muses, so Posidippus competes with Homer and Hesiod in his presentation of it. Thus epigram 7 (AB 27) (which anyhow has an important function in the structure of the Oiônoskopika and has a central position) can be seen as a poetological dialogue between epigram and epic, between the established, somehow topos-forming poetry of Homer and Hesiod and the innovative poems of Posidippus. Furthermore the link to Hesiod could be taken as a further indication of the suggested reading of the Oiônoskopika as a translation of didactic poetry (which Hesiod’s works represented) into the form of epigram. [115]

Finally, the naming of Alexander the Great might raise a third point. As we have seen, two epigrams (11 and 15 = AB 31, 35) mention Alexander, the only name that is historically secure. [116] In view of the new mantic revival both in literature and in actual practice, the naming of Alexander could be seen as a direct reflection of this renaissance and of the literary genre that transmitted this knowledge (i.e. historiography). The number of ‘historical’ omina within the Oiônoskopika supports such a connection to the genre of historiography.

These observations of possible literary relations of the Oiônoskopika and other genres such as epos, didactic poetry, historiography, as well as technical writings on mantic support the impression that the collection of epigrams as a whole can and wants to be read poetologically. We are dealing with a careful and thorough composition of epigrams, or rather their transmittance into a new work of art; it is based on a didactic structure through which mantic knowledge is transmitted in a poetical form. [117] The appeal to different genres springs from the strife of authorization and combat with previous texts of mantic content. We may even say that Posidippus combined his didactic presentation of Greek mantic with a history of its literary sources which chronologically runs from Homer, who is alluded to in the first epigram (AB 21), to Alexander in the last epigram (AB 35).

VI. The Invention of Oiônoskopika as an Epigrammatic Subgenre

Posidippus’ Oiônoskopika do not deal with concrete (fictional or real) objects but with omina, which completely lack the kind of referentiality traditionally linked to the form of epigram as a (stone)-inscription. Thus they are in accord with the Hellenistic tendency of systematic delapidarization of epigram which of course progressed with the ongoing transformation of epigram from stone to book. [118] Poets such as Posidippus tried to explore new topics and integrated them into the epigrammatic genre, no matter where they emerged from or how established they were in terms of generic sense. The erotic and sympotic epigrams are typical examples of this development which translated the topics of love-elegy and sympotic literature into the form of an epigram. With the publication of the Milan papyrus further transformations have emerged. Among them are the Oiônoskopika. They could well be an innovation by Posidippus, if he is indeed the author.

Transforming a genre into epigram is one thing, establishing the transformation another. As we have seen, Posidippus’ Oiônoskopika open up a poetological dialogue with a series of different genres in which (bird-)augury was at home, such as epic, didactic poetry, historiography, and technical writings. By way of inner Ergänzungsspiel a carefully worked out structure emerged which serves a didactic purpose and although we do not possess a didactic poem on which Posidippus could have modeled his epigram-collection, didactic poetry seems to be a possible generic model for the Oiônoskopika. One way to establish such an invention as a subgenre of epigram would be to integrate it among already established subgenres (and if we take a look at the structure of the whole epigram book this is what the poet might have intended). For the book seems to have an equally elaborate structure as the single sections and at least the Oiônoskopika is harmonically embedded between the preceding Lithika and the Anathematika. The following observations can be made. On the one hand both Lithika and Oiônoskopika seem to be new epigrammatic subgenres, possibly invented by Posidippus. [119] Placed at the beginning of a book, the Lithika not only have a surprising effect on the reader but can be also taken programmatically as a title for the whole epigram book because of the analogy between the art of gem-working and of writing epigrams. [120] And whereas this art is obviously revealed already in the first section, the following Oiônoskopika have a share of this programmatic meaning. They become the first example of the art of the epigrammatist established in the Lithika. Thus Posidippus introduces himself with two innovative subgenres, which also establish a generic sense of the art of the Posidippan epigram. We are to expect innovations as well as a creative treatment of established epigrammatic themes and subgenres. They can be as surprising as the opening sections of this Hellenistic epigram book.

Furthermore the close link between Lithika and Oiônoskopika is underscored by the harmonic, almost natural transition of the two sections; this is achieved linguistically as well as with regard to the content. At the end of the Lithika the attention of the reader is more and more shifted away from stones towards the element of water, which is introduced in its superior powers over stone in the form of a prayer to Poseidon (AB 19.11–14, col. III 38–41): [121]

Check, Poseidon, your mighty hand, and the heavy wave Do not drive from the sea to the unprotected shore.Since you lifted from the depth a twenty-four cubit rock, You will easily mow down a whole island in the sea. [122]

The reader who has been looking at stones in the preceeding eighteen epigrams and has learned of their value, size, and origin is forced to change perspective. His glance shifts from the rock to the sea, the great power of which now gets into the focus of attention. Thus the reader is prepared to leave the Lithika behind and turn to a new section, which again starts with the motif of water and sea: the first two epigrams (AB 21–22) of the Oiônoskopika deal with shipping. [123]

Similarly the Oiônoskopika are linked with the following Anathematika, as we can see from two final examples. [124] Not only is the motif of shipping, which was the topic of the first two Oiônoskopika (AB 21–22), taken up in the second epigram of the Anathematika, but we also find that the sign (a bird), which was the decisive criterion for shipping in the Oiônoskopika, has been replaced in the Anathematika by the prayer to Arsinoe (AB 37, AB 39). This shift in focus on the one hand underscores the intended praising of Arsinoe, who is likewise elevated into the position of the gods as she gains the power of a protecting goddess for shipping. [125] On the other hand the invoking of Arsinoe to protect shipping can be seen as a consequence of the lessons of the Oiônoskopika: omina are not always forthcoming when needed; and given that they admit various interpretations, ideally a seer should be consulted. A prayer to Arsinoe seems to be the more reliable and faster alternative.

A further link between both sections is established by the first epigram of the Anathematika, which is connected with two epigrams of the Oiônoskopika. First of all we find a link with AB 33 as in both epigrams a dream is reported. But whereas Hêgêsô interprets her vision of Arsinoe correctly, Aristoxeinos in the Oiônoskopika misinterprets his dream and gets killed. Thus Arsinoe is again praised for her much greater credibility compared with an omen, which is more likely to be misleading. Secondly epigram 1 of the Anathematika echoes epigram 10 (AB 30) of the Oiônoskopika in referring to the motive of a sweating cult statue. And in this case, too, the negative connotation of the omen in the Oiônoskopika is converted into the ‘sweet sweat’ (γλυκὺν ἰδρῶ, AB 36.3) of Arsinoe whose positive appearance is further stressed. Thus the Anathematika are in an ongoing dialogue with the preceding Oiônoskopika and both sections comment on each other in a playful manner. At the moment of leaving the Oiônoskopika and entering the ‘classical’ section of Anathematika, the reader recognizes familiar themes and motifs taken from the Oiônoskopika and picked up in the Anathematika. Thus the Oiônoskopika prove to be an important key for reading the Anathematika, which themselves become the starting point of re-reading and re-estimating the mantic messages of the Oiônoskopika.

To summarize these observations we can say that the Oiônoskopika are not only artfully structured as a section but also harmonically fit into the sequence of the epigram book. The first three sections build upon each other, so that the Lithika introduce the Oiônoskopika, which pave the way for the praise of Arsinoe in the Anathematika. Posidippus has introduced his ‘new’ Oiônoskopika into an epigram book and established it amidst the classical epigrammatic subgroups. Thus Posidippus has tried to establish his ‘new’ Oiônoskopika by way of Ergänzungsspiel with other and—in the case of the Anathematika—‘classical’ epigrammatical subgroups.

The fact that later anthologies did not include Oiônoskopika neither separately nor as a whole section reflects a certain conservatism towards the genre of epigram. Posidippus’ fascinating innovation thus remained an unchallenged poetic experiment.

VII. Topics and Structure of the Oiônoskopika (οἰωνοσκοπικά)*

epigram

kind of omen

situation

person

quality

1 (AB 21)

ἴρηξ (αἴθυια)

sea travel

Timon

positive

2 (AB 22)

γέρανος (ὄρνις βουκαῖος)

sea travel

—

positive

3 (AB 23)

αἴθυια

fishing

—

positive

4 (AB 24)

ὁ Θηβαῖος ὄρνις (αἴθυια)

fishing

Archytas

positive

5 (AB 25)

(old man) priest/relatives

(traveling) marriage

—

positive

6 (AB 26)

πελλὸς ὄρνις

buying slaves

Hieron/Asteria

positive

7 (AB 27)

φήνη

childbirth

—

positive

8 (AB 28)

crying old man at a crossroads

warfare

Timoleon

negative

9 (AB 29)

κορυδός/ἀκανθίς

(traveling)

Euelthon

negative

10 (AB 30)

sweating statue

warfare

—

negative

11 (AB 31)

(ἀετός/στεροπή) moving bronze statue of Athena

warfare

Alexander

(negative) positive

12 (AB 32)

servant falling down with armor

warfare

Antimachos

negative

13 (AB 33)

dream of being a suitor of Athena

warfare

Aristoxeinos

negative

14 (AB 34)

seer

mantic art

Damon

open

15 (AB 35)

seer/κόραξ

mantic art

Strymon/Alexander

positive

Footnotes

[ back ] *. We are grateful to Markus Asper, Helga Köhler, Ivana and Andrej Petrovic for their suggestions and helpful criticism.

[ back ] 1. “Many birds there are that pass to and fro under the rays of the sun, and not all are fateful.” Murray 1995: I 59.

[ back ] 2. Hesiod Works and Days 826–828. Also see below V: ‘Poetry and Didactics in the Oiônoskopika.’

[ back ] 3. Cf. for instance Homer Iliad XXIV 315–16, Xenophon Memorabilia I 3 and Porphyrius De Abstinentia III 5.3. For further discussion and reference see Pollard 1977:116–129; for bird-augury in general cf. Bouché-Leclerq 1879–1882: I 127–145, Dillon 1996, Pritchett 1979:101–108, and Stengel 1920:57–59.

[ back ] 6. Homer Odyssey ii 158–159: … ὁ γὰρ οἶος ὁμηλικίην ἐκέκαστο | ὄρνιθας γνῶναι καὶ ἐναίσιμα μυθήσασθαι· (“… for he [Halitherses] surpassed all men of his day in knowledge of birds and uttering words of fate.”) Murray 1995: I 57–59. The seer interprets the flight of two birds, which were spotted fighting against each other during an assembly of the Ithacians, as a negative omen for Penelope’s suitors. For his expertise in prediction also cf. Odyssey xxiv 452: ὁ [Ἁλιθέρσης] γὰρ οἶος ὅρα πρόσσω καὶ ὀπίσσω (“For he alone saw before and after”) Murray 1995: II 445.

[ back ] 7. The only comparable example is epigram XI 186, in which the song of a night-raven is taken as a prediction of death and destruction: Νυκτικόραξ ᾄδει θανατηφόρον; ἀλλ᾿ ὅταν ᾄση | Δημόφιλος, θνῄσκει καὐτὸς ὁ νυκτικόραξ (“The night-raven’s song bodes death, but when Demophilus sings the night-raven itself dies”) Paton 1999: IV 161. Other epigrams, in which birds appear, are mostly grave-epigrams like VII 191 (magpie), VII 199 (unknown bird), VII 202 (cock), 203–206 (partridge), 210 (swallow). The oracle-epigrams of book XIV in the Greek Anthology do not deal with bird-omina/-oracles.

[ back ] 9. Up to this point the question of authenticity cannot be finally solved. However, the lack of distinguished linguistic and stylistic differences amongst the epigrams as well as the careful composition of the whole epigram-book and its single sections, in which the epigrams are thoroughly interrelated not only in regard to their contents but also linguistically (see below section II), strongly suggests one poet as author and probably also as anthologist of the epigram book. Thus we follow BG:22–24 in associating the papyrus with Posidippus of Pella.

[ back ] 10. The different sections of the book are: [λιθ]ικά, οἰωνοϲκοπικά, ἀναθηματικά, [ἐπιτύμβια], ἀνδριαντοποιϊκά, ἱππικά, ναυαγικά, ἰαματικά, τρόποι followed by two fragments of epigrams from an unspecified tenth section. For the composition of the epigram book, see BG:24–27 and Gutzwiller (this volume).

[ back ] 12. See LSJ s.v. οἰωνός and ὄρνις. Also cf. Stengel 1920:59 and Pollard 1977:120 for the termini technici of bird-augury. The common terms for (bird-)augury are οἰωνοσκοπική, οἰωνοσκοπία and ὀρνιθομαντεία (Proclus ad Hes. Op. 824). The verbs οἰωνίζομαι and (the more seldom used) ὀρνιθεύομαι bare exclusively the mantic meaning ‘to foretell from birds’ or ‘to prophesy’ in general; the specialists for bird-augury in Homer are οἰωνισταί or οἰωνοπόλοι, later attested terms are ὀρνιθόμαντις and οἰωνόμαντις. Pausanias (IX 16,1) calls the place of bird-augury οἰωνοσκοπεῖον.

[ back ] 15. The term is used by Aeschylus Prom. 487; σύμβουλοι of this kind are also mentioned by Pindar Olympian 12.8 (with scholia), Aristophanes Birds 721 (with scholia) and Xenophon Memorabilia I 1.3; cf. McCartney 1935:97–112.

[ back ] 16. One could even say that the structure of the Oiônoskopika mirrors the linguistic development, as we find ‘pure’ bird-omina in the first couple of epigrams, which give way to other signs the more the section proceeds. See below II.4. Hunter (this volume) derives a ‘generic sense’ from the fact that the first four epigrams depict bird-omina.

[ back ] 17. For the order of epigrams in anthologies cf. Cameron 1993:19–48 and Gutzwiller 1998:277–321 with a discussion of verbal linkage between epigrams.

[ back ] 18. Cf. Bing 1995:116 and Ludwig 1968 for the intertextuality of epigrams by different authors.

[ back ] 27. Petrain takes πρέσβυς as referring to a ‘wren’ and integrates the epigram amongst the bird-omina; for further discussion of Petrain’s suggestion and the interpretation of the epigram, cf. below II.4.

[ back ] 31. For ways of interaction between poetry and readership in the Hellenistic period, cf. Asper 2001:94–116.

[ back ] 32. Marks of origin are found in epigram 8 (AB 28), where Timoleon from Phocis is mentioned, as well as in epigrams 13–15 (AB 33–35), which introduce the Arcadean Aristoxenos, Damon from Telmessus and the Thracian hero Strymon. Historical events are presented in epigrams 11 and 15 (AB 31, 35), which refer to Alexander’s war against the Persians and in epigram 12 (AB 32), where the Illyrian army is mentioned.

[ back ] 33. The fact that we do not know anything about the persons presented and the described events except for Alexander and the Argead kings might be caused by the loss of texts especially from the Hellenistic era.

[ back ] 34. See also III below. We just want to mention the temporal coincidence of the increased occurrence of bird-augury and mantic practice in the Alexander literature and Posidippus’ epigrams. From this point of view the reference to Alexander in Posidippus could be read as his homage to the very person who helped to make bird-augury popular again.

[ back ] 35. We can of course not rule out the possibility that the poet alludes to events that were familiar to the Alexandrians of the third century BCE whose reports disappeared in the course of later transmission.

[ back ] 36. A similar ironic use of speaking names can be found in Callimachus, for instance in the cases of Callignotos (11 GP = 25 Pf.), Euaenetus (25 GP = 56 Pf.), or Conopion (63 GP = 63 Pf.).

[ back ] 37. Neither a clear historical reference nor a clear functionalization as a speaking name can be detected in the case of the Arcadian Aristoxeinus (13 = AB 33). The name together with the mark of origin might however characterize him—like the Phocean Timoleon in epigram 8 (AB 28)—as a mercenary. Similarly Timon (1 = AB 21) and Archytas (4 = 24) do not show clear references. The Thracian seer Strymon (15 = AB 35), who is also characterized as a hero, has the name of a Thracian river (and river-god), which at its lower stretches forms the traditional border between Thrace and Macedon. This could perhaps be taken as a poetic attempt to align the seer with Alexander.

[ back ] 38. The only explicit mark of origin can be found in epigram 9 (AB 29), where the city Sidene in Aeolia is mentioned (cf. Strabo XIII 1.11, 42). Perhaps the author intended to ‘prove’ the tragic irony indicated by the name by evoking an historical background.

[ back ] 45. The term ὁδίτης is not restricted to a ‘peaceful’ traveler, but can be used with a negative and even hostile connotation (cf. Sophocles Philoctetes 147: δεινὸς ὁδίτης).

[ back ] 46. AB 21: νηῒ καθελκομένηι πάντα πλέο<ϲ> ἰνὶ φανήτω ἴρηξ, αἰθυίηϲ οὐ καθαροπτέρυγοϲ. (‘At the launching of a ship may a hawk appear all full of strength | as the shearwater’s wings are not of good omen.’) Translation by C. Austin and G. Bastianini, AB:43. The ἴρηξ which can be a hawk or a falcon (cf. Pollard 1977:144), was frequently regarded as a bird of omen and is linked to Apollo in Aristophanes’ Birds 516 (cf. Dunbar 1995:354–355). As such, the occurrence of a falcon/hawk in the first epigram can be seen as programmatic as the bird evokes the god and the mantic art traditionally associated with Apollo, which is also the topic of the Oiônoskopika. For the different types of falcons/hawks and their characteristic features, cf. Thompson 1966:114–118.

[ back ] 47. A possible exception is epigram 11 (AB 31), which contains a positive omen for Alexander that is, however, negative for his enemies, the Persian army, as it indicates fire and destruction for them (AB 31.6).

[ back ] 48. From this angle Petrain’s (2002) interpretation of πρέϲβυϲ as a bird in epigram 8 (AB 28) seems unlikely as it would spoil the proposed arrangement of the epigrams, which revealed itself with regard to the quality of omina and situations in which they occur. Thus it seems more plausible to assume that also the criterion of the kind of omina follows this grouping, which it does if we take πρέϲβυϲ (like in epigram 5, AB 25) as referring to an ‘old man’. We might, however, accept Petrain’s notion that the name contains a deliberate ambiguity by which the author could underline the point that different omina could have similar meanings, such as a crying wren and a crying old man.

[ back ] 49. As in epigram 11 (AB 31), where the focus is not on the eagle as a sign but on the statue of Athena.

[ back ] 51. Which itself shows a parallel structure as epigrams 5 and 9 ‘circle’ around the transitional epigram 7, of which they both are separated by only one other epigram.

[ back ] 52. Epigram 5 (AB 25) deals with marriage and has a positive outcome, whereas epigram 9 has a nega-tive outcome and integrates itself among the military omina (cf. II.2 above).

[ back ] 53. Country sayings can be found in epigram 2 (AB 22) and epigram 3 (AB 23), in which the diving shearwater indicates successful fishing. A straightforward interpretation by analogy can be found in the first epigram (AB 21), where a diving bird is depicted as a negative omen for launching a ship that will most likely sink.

[ back ] 54. The same can be said for the structure of the Andriantopoiika, which reflect prose works on art-historical theory. See Kosmetatou (this volume).

[ back ] 55. For different aspects of the Hellenistic ‘genre-crossing’ cf. the volume on Genre in Hellenistic Poetry (for example Harder’s [1998:95–113] study on ‘Generic Games’ in Callimachus’ Aetia) as well as Taran 1979 and Ludwig 1968 (with emphasize on the erotic epigram).

“The flight of crook-taloned birds I distinguished clearly—which by nature are auspicious, which sinister—their various modes of life, their mutual feuds and loves, and their consortings.” (Translation by Weir Smyth 1922:I 259).

[ back ] 58. Plutarch tells us (according to the general knowledge that a raven is eating carrions, cf. Bouché-Leclerq 1879:133 and Pollard 1977:127f.) about some ravens, which appeared as symbols of death when Alexander arrived at Babylon (Alexander 73.1). On the other hand we hear of helpful ravens that led Alexander and his followers through the desert to the Ammoneion. Cf. Callisthenes (FGrHist 124) F 14 (= Strab. XVII 1.43; Plutarch Alexander 27.2); Arrian Anabasis III 3.6; Diodorus XVII 49.5; Curt. IV 7.15. For the motive of birds leading the way also cf. Plutarch Theseus 36.1 and Pausanias IX 38.3–4. See Dillon 1996:115n56 with further bibliography.

[ back ] 59. The owl was regarded as a bird of death (cf. Wellmann 1909:1065f. and 1069f. with sources), but was also associated with Athena and thus regarded as a bearer of positive messages (especially for the people of Athens), cf. Plutarch Themistocles 12.1 and Diodorus XX 11.3.

[ back ] 69. Sophocles Antigone 998–1004. (Translation by Lloyd-Jones 1994: II 95). The interpretation of the blind seer, who is told the events by a young boy, is by no means a “technical” one but again symbolic: Teiresias learns about the situation of Thebes by the unusual behavior of the birds, as the croaking noise of the birds, which are tearing each other apart, tells him that something is wrong.

[ back ] 70. Euripides Bacchae 346–351: Pentheus demands to destroy the seat from which Teiresias watched the birds.

When you see the shearwater diving from high in the air under the wave of the sea, consider it, fisherman, a good sign.[Send down] your line with its many hooks and throw the drag [net] and traps: you’ll never come home without a good catch.

[ back ] 87. For a discussion of Petrain’s reading of πρέϲβυϲ as a bird, cf. II.4 above.

[ back ] 88. As a consequence, in times of conflict such occurrences have positive significance for the addressee’s enemies. Cf. Chaniotis 1998.

[ back ] 89. Special attention in this context was not only given to catastrophes like fire, lightning strikes, or flooding but also accidents of visitors and the unusual behavior of priests and animals living in the sanctuary (cf. Herodotus VIII 41.2–3, Xenophon Hell. I 3.1; I 6.1;V 4.58; Pausanias III 9.2; Diodorus XV 48.1, 49.4; Plutarch Alexander 3.4). Furthermore, miraculous signs (terata) happened very often in sanctuaries, such as the sweating of a cult statue or other peculiari on statues, the disappear-ance of sacred weapons and their reappearance at different places in the sanctuary, and the ‘automatic’ opening of doors (cf. Herodotus VI 82; VIII 37.1–2; Xenophon Hell. VI 4.7 and Plutarch Timoleon 12.9).

[ back ] 94. The Romans reacted to prodigia with procurationes, which (if performed correctly) could avert the negative prediction and reestablish the pax deorum. In Greece no comparable way of communication with the gods is known. Even in Posidippus the ritual does not aim to undo the message. As always in Greek mantic, the prediction of an omen will fulfill itself (in this case only upon a different addressee).

[ back ] 95. For a somewhat different reading of the epigram, cf. Schröder 2002:28–29.

[ back ] 96. A seer (Asterie) is also mentioned in epigram 6 (AB 26), which, however, does not put the focus on mantic practice or the competence of the seer, but on the πελλὸς ὄρνις as a specific omen.

[ back ] 97. Schröder’s (2002:27–28) observation that the epigram starts with the description of a gravestone that depicts a raven (AB 35.1) does not alter the mantic significance of the raven and the use of him as a means of prediction by Strymon and Alexander: τῶι τούτου χρηϲάμενοϲ κόρακι (AB 35.4).

[ back ] 98. According to Herodotus I 78.84 the Lydian king Croesus consulted the Telmessians.

[ back ] 107. Compare for example the erotic and sympotic epigrams, which take over topics from love-elegy and sympotic literature and transform them—although in a highly selective way—to the genre of epigram. Cf. Giangrande 1968. For the sympotic and erotic epigram in Hellenistic period also cf. Gutzwiller 1998:117 and—with regard to Asclepiades 25 GP—Bettenworth 2002.

At the launching of a ship may a hawk appear all full of strength,as the shearwater’s wings are not of good omen.A bird that dives to the deep is unpropitious, but let it flyon high … completely.So from an Ionian oak soared a swift-winged hawkAt the launching, Timon, of your sacred ship.

[ back ] 111. The contrast between the situation of war in Homer and Posidippus’ peaceful launching of a ship may be taken as a poetic game Posidippus is playing with his model.

[ back ] 112. Cf. Pollard 1977:158: “Poseidon did take bird form or rather the two Ajaxes imagined that he had done so when, as they were listening to Calchas, they suddenly spied a falcon taking wing.” Against the assumption of an actual metamorphosis cf. Janko 1992:50: “Poseidon leaves with the speed of a hawk, not in the shape of one …”

[ back ] 113. The loci classici for this motive are Homer Odyssey viii 167–177 and Hesiod Theogony 91–97. Also cf. Solmsen 1954:1–15.

[ back ] 115. It might be also noted that the topos of inspiration in Hesiod is part of the proem of the Theogony, so that Posidippus’ epigram is alluding to a text which deliberately establishes and discusses the didactics of the specific poem and poetry in general, i.e. of how knowledge is perceived and transmitted.

[ back ] 117. The transformation of technical texts into poetry of epigrams might also be connected with the intention of presenting the material in a more memorable form. This aspect can be found in some epigrams which have been used in schools. Cf. Wißmann 2002.

[ back ] 118. An early example (fifth century BCE) of an epigram playing with the conventions of inscription by asking the passerby to start the process of delapidarization and to transfer it from its inscribed place into different (con)texts can be found in Simonides’ famous epigram ὦ ξεῖν᾿ ἀγγέλλειν … Cf. Baumbach 2000.

[ back ] 123. In regard to the underlying topics of the two sections, the transition is visualized in AB 19; the epigrams move away from hard and in the case of the rock also static objects of stones to the flying (birds) and changing omens of the Oiônoskopika. Furthermore the reader is asked to raise his glance from the stones on the ground to the birds in the sky.

[ back ] 124. Also cf. Stephens (this volume), who discusses further evidence for the intertextuality between the Oiônoskopika and the Anathematika.

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